I am pretty sure the first full Velvet Underground album I heard was Loaded. But I had definitely seen the image synonymous with the Velvet Underground — you know which one I’m talking about, the Andy Warhol banana, way before I listened to any of their music. I remember one of the older, meaner (supposedly cooler) boys at school wearing the t-shirt with the album cover on it. Timidly and out of sheer curiosity I inquired, “So what’s your favorite song?” He took it as a challenge of sorts — as if I were trying to measure out his cool points, and snarled back something like, “You probably don’t even know who Lou Reed is.” Which is true, I didn’t. But at least I didn’t need to pretend to.
So I went out and listened to Loaded because if that asshole’s favorite album was The Velvet Underground & Nico, I didn’t want to listen to it. Turns out it was meant to be. In Loaded, Reed painted images of a dark and intriguing underground. He described things I’d never seen of or imagined in the palm tree littered and sun tan expanse of southern California. New York sounded so cool in “Sweet Jane” and the “heavenly wine and roses seem to whisper to her when she smiles” part right before the cacophony of la la las was enough for me to be sold on the band. I also found a kindred spirit in Jenny from “Rock & Roll.” Listening to the radio and rock & roll in general definitely helped ease the pains of growing up.
It wasn’t until later on that I sought out Reed’s solo work. Coney Island Baby is now something I return to over and over. When I heard the news of Reed’s passing, I put it on my record player immediately. It reminds me of when I first moved to New York. I was pretty lonely; New York is good at making you feel that way. I wandered around Coney Island alone on a cold, foggy day and listened to that record for the first time. It was life-affirming to know that even an intense, surly man like Lou Reed believed that the “glory of love might see you through.”
Thanks Lou, and see you on the wild side.
